Excerpt:
While
standing in the checkout line at the art supply store, Marlene reproached
herself for her curt and inelegant response to Christopher’s invitation. For
sure, she felt, he hadn’t been particularly suave in his outreach to her, either.
In the two weeks of waiting for his call, she had gone over every nuance of
their conversation in the Taos Inn, regretting that she hadn’t teased him into
a more serious, or at least a fun relationship. She’d been too focused on her
art, and she knew men were attracted to women who flirt, even if the man was
married—Christopher wore no ring, but so what did that
mean?
That
afternoon in the tavern she should have invited him to her studio, changed into
alluring attire and produced a romantic air for scintillating conversation by
uncorking a bottle of Moselle wine, preparing a tasty tray of vorspeisen, turning
on enchanting Bavarian music and lighting her scented candles—all against a
backdrop of her prized art. As she paid the cashier, she brought herself back
to the moment. Enough of this playful fantasizing! She was nervous about
showing her art to this wealthy patron. Christopher would have to
wait.
She
reminded herself to concentrate on how she would present herself and her art to
this woman with the name of “Mrs. Powers.” She vowed she would never abdicate
her own ideals to a person who might be a domineering fuhrer in a skirt.
Blumy and the other Taos artists had benefited from sponsorship those years ago
and still did. Because of the railroad’s beneficence, their Taos School was
indelibly imprinted upon the annals of world art, mentioned in every art
history book and probably taught in every MFA program. Other individual
artists, not so fortunate, had been readily co-opted. Marlene didn’t want such
a destructive fate to befall her. She could think for herself, and she vowed to
continue to paint, but solely for her own
satisfaction.
Hurrying
back to her studio, Marlene climbed the stairs only to see a note pinned to her
door—Joe’s delinquent rent notice—and she panicked. She needed money and she
desperately hoped this prospective patron would be generous, yet allow her to
express her talent in the hallowed tradition of the Taos School, where her
Blumy and his diverse group had pledged themselves to always remain faithful to
their own individual artistic
styles.
Marlene
remembered that the gallery owner told her that the patron woman was heiress to
a molybdenum fortune, and that her philanthropic nature was well known throughout
the Southwest. “But, whatever you do, don’t say anything about the mountain top
up by Questa that her mining company is scarring in the worst way—she’s very
sensitive about the environmental issues about her company having stripped the
mountain of its natural
beauty.”
Having
been both briefed and warned about her potential benefactor, Marlene waited for
the knock on her door. Fresh flowers graced her rustic pine table. In her oven
baked an apple strudel, its flavors wafting through her studio. Twice she
repositioned her canvases, which she had purposely enriched with gilded frames,
each time twisting her track lighting to best capture the aura and ambiance of
each painting.
“What
smells so yummy?” the amply proportioned Mrs. Powers inquired immediately upon
entering Marlene’s aromatic stage.
“It’s
my mother’s recipe for apple strudel from the old country. You will have a
taste in just a minute or two—that is, when it cools.” Marlene rushed on,
“There’s no sugar. I use pure honey from a little town outside Nuremberg—my
father sends me a jar a month. He says the honey will counteract the pollen
from our juniper trees, and I will never have an
allergy.
“Oh,
please sit down. May I pour you a cup of coffee?” Marlene knew she must put an
end to her unrehearsed rapid speech, but she couldn’t stop. “Hasn’t our weather
been glorious for this time of year? Makes me want to hike to the top of the
unspoiled mountains around here instead of painting them. I’m a very disciplined
artist and I know I could complete your assignment quickly and
faithfully.”
“Could
I have that strudel now?”
“Yes,
of course. Do you take cream in your
coffee?”
“I
prefer tea with two sugars.”
“Would
honey do?”
“Oh,
forget it, dear. I’m here because Mr. Peters at the gallery recommended your
work. My decorator is redoing my living room for this season’s Opera Guild
socials. Mr. Peters insisted I select the art because he so values my opinion.
Money’s no object, for me color is what’s important.” She looked at the
painting on Marlene’s easel. “Not this one, but I do like the shading in that
one over there. Don’t you have any landscapes without all these
mountains?”
“I
can paint a fresh subject for you,” Marlene assured her
visitor.
“Yes, I think we shall have
to do that.”
“Do you have a particular setting in mind?
Perhaps I could do an interpretive rendering of your
house?”
“Maybe—no,
I don’t want to appear overly pretentious, you know. Some people react….” Mrs.
Powers produced small decorator color swatches. “Here, these will guide you.
Your painting must not clash with my new draperies. I plan to give your
painting the prominent space above my grand kiva fireplace, so make sure it
blends in with everything in the room. Mine is, of course, quite a large
room.”
Hesitatingly
Marlene showed Ms. Powers another canvas. “This is my current work in progress.
I’m painting my impressions of the Tu-o-ta
Pueblo.”
Mrs.
Powers pointed to the reddish-brown branches of the red willow trees lining the
small stream. “Yes, this color here…a teeny bit softer, I should think. Put in
a sweet little deer or two—you artists know what to do—but none of those
rickety ladders. I want my friends to feel at home…you know, comfortable…so
they’ll come back and donate more money to the Guild. That’s why I hold these
socials, you know, to raise money for a good cause. One must support the
community, as well as art and artists, don’t you
think?”
Marlene
nodded.
“How
much do you require to get
started?”
Marlene
didn’t know how to respond.
“Five
hundred, then, is that all right?” Mrs. Powers asked, then inquired, “How will
you sign my painting? Can you make Marlene look a little like Remington? I
don’t want you to actually forge his signature, of course, but I want my guests
to be impressed—I mean, they all know that name. Now, could I have that
strudel now?”
Marlene
cut a slice of her pastry, covered it with gobs of whipped cream and
deliberately shoved the culinary concoction into the face of Mrs. Powers.
“Ernest
Leonard Blumenschein made me do this, and he hopes you get the message.”
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Interesting excerpt
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